The most melodramatic and tragic event that I saw unfold was the ill-fated FA Cup Semi Final between Nottingham Forest and Liverpool
In this post I am going to be a theatre critic and if that means 50% of readers go elsewhere, then so be it.
This post links a couple of memorable theatrical performances that are so different, and yet have a similarity in the message that they continue to send out.
To be a theatre critic for the day, I need to explain what I consider to be theatre and why. I rarely visit a cinema or watch television. I need my entertainment with a personal connection. Both sport and musical events are also theatre, whether the venue is a stadium or an open space.
In fact the most melodramatic, epic and tragic event that I saw unfold was the ill-fated FA Cup Semi Final between Nottingham Forest and Liverpool in 1989.
To stand on a packed terrace and watch the events slowly develop over a 30 minute period was understandably memorable. Being there; seeing the whole stage-show, the complicated mix of choreography and sound. Audience participation even added to the surreal experience. A narrated documentary or news feature can never match the complete theatrical experience of ‘being there’.
We stood, as part of the audience, transfixed
You see in that 30 minute period, we stood, as part of the audience, transfixed.
The main stage was the pitch.
Initially an empty green space, then occupied by 22 actors, half in red and half in white. A choreographer in black. The opening scene was only a couple of minutes long but was exciting and frantic.
Then some kind of incident began to unfold backstage. The audience were confused, then irritable. The stage was cleared. Irritation became frustration, then anger.
The audience began singing songs to each other. The songs were derogatory but kept everyone occupied. The stage was now busy again. A cast of tens then hundreds, all animated and busy; this time all wore blue.
Blue denim, blue uniforms, and blue lights!
All became clear. Ironically, now that the stage was occupied by hundreds of people, the script was easier to follow. Lifeless people were carried on advertising boards and placed near to us.
Now many of you will know the story of Hillsborough. It is a dark day in English history. The only advantage I had of being in the audience at the ‘opening performance’, is one abiding memory. As we watched people attempting resuscitation (stage front), my attention was drawn to a man who appeared centre stage and ran towards us. He stopped at the edge of the penalty box. He was about 50 years of age and dressed in denim. He looked towards us, his audience. He spoke but no one heard his words. However, his hand gestures were clear and unmistakable. They said, ‘Come and join me on stage where I want to fight you’
I turned to my friends and said ‘Time to go’.
On Valentine Day 2014, my act of ‘spontaneity’ was to take Lisa to Nottingham Playhouse to see the penultimate performance of My Judy Garland Life. I had booked the tickets weeks before, so I was clearly not acting on impulse. However in my case, I knew that the timing of this trip (to England’s finest regional theatre), would be so well received by Lisa that I would be excused a few misjudgments later in the year!
I first knew of Lisa’s connection to Judy Garland in 2005. Despite Lisa being born the same year as Judy’s death, she must have built up affection for her from childhood.
I remember being in Edinburgh for the Edinburgh Fringe, sitting in the sunshine when a woman came passed smiling. Lisa acknowledged her as ‘Judy’, as though they were old school-friends. This oddly dressed woman was in fact Isabelle Georges, a French entertainer who was performing a show ‘Une Etoile et Moi’ in tribute to the life and music of Judy Garland. We saw the show a few days later.
So, the world premiere of My Judy Garland Life in my hometown on Valentines Day, ‘had to be done’ as they say.
Now in reality, I am not qualified to be a theatre critic. I’ll leave that to the people who were sat behind us. They seemed to have a view on the career potential of different cast members. They seemed too opinionated to just sit back and be entertained, and entertained we were!
We were treated to a seamless and varied visual feast. Information and facts were communicated to us by clever video clips and soundbites. The cast of 5 were superb individually but allowed the whole experience to focus on the exhillarating and manic individual that Judy Garland was. Her portrayal as the complete entertainer who connected with her audience came across very strong. As the show progressed, it seemed as though we were all under her spell. The scene where she befriends some London cabbies and opens up to them stands out. For all of her talent, that she was in reality a commodity, vulnerable, used and abused by people around her from childhood to Hollywood icon. The same people who should have helped her and protected her.
Two very different theatrical events, but the same legacy.
Judy Garland died prematurely and was let down by people in the US entertainment industry, who should have protected her from harm.
The Hillsborough victims died prematurely and were let down by people in the UK Football Industry, who should have protected them from harm.
As co-presenter of true-crime podcast The Six O’Clock Knock, Jacques has recently looked at the The Black Panther case from the 1970s. The Black Panther was a name given to an unidentified armed robber who had targeted sub post-offices in Britain. He had already killed on two occasions.
In 1975, the Black Panther changed his Modus Operandi. He kidnapped a teenage girl named Lesley Whittle and attempted to extort £50,000 from her family. Lesley was taken from her home and kept hostage in an underground drainage chamber in Bathpool Park, near to Kidsgrove in Staffordshire.
She spent three days underground before the ransom plan went awry. The Black Panther had planned it meticulously, but the vital instructions for the ransom drop were badly communicated. Lesley Whittle died at his hands and the police did not have a suspect. It was several months until his chance arrest in Rainworth Nottinghamshire.
Only then did the police have a name for him.
Jacques reflects on the widespread criticism of the police handling of Lesley’s kidnap and the subsequent investigation into her murder.
Now, as a former detective, I can say it was not a proud moment for the police service. Not only was there a lack of coordination to catch the Panther before he turned to kidnapping. It was the tragedy of Lesley Whittle’s death that exposed the police blunders in the worst way possible.
The question has always remained. Could she have been found alive?
Chief Superintendent Booth had been reluctant to hand over the reins to John Morrison of Scotland Yard. He was forced to eventually, for some reason though, all the Panther’s earlier crimes were not brought under one central command. Was this another case of egos getting in the way of proper management decisions? I don’t know, but whatever rivalries there were, there was one simple objective in the days of Lesley Whittle’s disappearance. That was quite simply to Find Lesley Whittle Alive.
Now in my career, I was fortunate to benefit from the lessons learnt from the mistakes of, what now seems like the ‘wild-west policing’ in the Britain up to the 1980s.
I have experience of kidnaps and hostage situations. They are stand-alone investigations, referred to as a Crime in Action. They all have the same objective. The safe resolution and rescue of the hostage. The criminal investigation, nailing the offender, comes second. It is a real time investigation, using every intelligence opportunity possible
A Crime in Action requires specially trained staff, and their work is done when the hostage is found. Regional police forces are now able to deal with these cases. The key to them is to set them up in a covert way, even within the police organisation.
We are now much much better at it, and I have to say for Simon’s credit, so are the journalists. The police put far more resources into Media and Communications now. The days of those conversations in pubs between the police, journalists and lawyers / are long gone.
You have to have some sympathy for Mr Booth. News of the kidnap had been leaked to a freelance journalist and this put Booth ‘on the back foot’ at a critical time. There were even rival press conferences about a linked crime in the West Midlands, and in Staffordshire about Lesley Whittle. It was disorganised to say the least. Nowadays kidnap cases come with a news blackout.
There was also the blame game over why Bathpool Park wasn’t searched, after the failed ransom drop. Mr Booth had ‘assumed’ that the Met Police had searched it. A critical error, particularly when all communication from The Panther stopped at that point. A search could have been made in a reasonably covert way, even in those days. A search of the drainage shaft could have been done without drawing too much attention.
I don’t want to sound critical though. You have to look at the fact that Neilson was a rare type of villain. Extremely dangerous and calculating. Let’s face it, if he aborted the whole operation at Bathpool Park with Lesley being alive, he could have made one phone call to alert the police to where she was. He didn’t, either because he knew she was dead, or didn’t care what happened to her.
My career was made easier by the organisational changes that came from others mistakes. I get the fact that there used to be strong rivalry between departments, not only police forces. It still doesn’t justify the squabble between West Mercia and Staffordshire who took the overall lead in investigating Lesley Whittle’s murder.
There’s an article published in the Police Review magazine from 1984. It reports on the final public humiliation for the police, at Neilson’s trial.
Neilson’s defence to murder was that Lesley must have fallen to her death. The prosecution used the accounts of Staffordshire and Metropolitan police officers, to explain how she was found (weeks after the kidnap) and the interpretation of the scene. Chief Supt Booth who had been the Senior Officer, was expecting to be called to give his evidence. Having waited outside the court for days, in the end he was not called. This is not unusual for a witness not to be called to give their evidence. The prosecuting barristers try to not over complicate how the evidence is put to a jury. They have to find a balance between calling live witnesses, and other evidence from exhibits and documents.
The defence team did call Chief Superintendent Booth though, and it turned out not to be his finest hour. Instead of sticking to his evidence and the facts, he openly criticised other officers. The Judge would later tell the jury that Booth’s opinions were completely irrelevant.’
Do you know, the thing that I find most chilling is that Neilson was behaving like a terrorist. He dressed like a paramilitary, and he behaved with military discipline. And yet the police service as a whole, were unable to stop him. If he’d been a member of the IRA, acting alone, just imagine what havoc he could have caused?
Donald Neilson died in prison in 2011.
Episode 14 of The Six O’Clock Knock titled Donald Neilson ‘The Black Panther’ is published on Spreaker but can be found on all the main podcast platforms.
The Nottinghamshire Mining Museum has recently asked for memories of riding the paddy train or the belt. I had this short memory as a 15 year old, on a visit to Calverton Colliery in 1978.
My father worked at Calverton Colliery from about 1958 to 1984. In 1978, my school arranged a French Exchange with a school from Rousillon (near Lyon) in France. A 15 year old lad named Christophe stayed with us for two weeks. My father arranged for Christophe and I to visit the pit and go underground. The three things I remember most was the rush of air when we were underground, the heat of the cramped space at the coal-face, and the conveyor belt. I remember our ‘guide’ explaining the ‘options’ of getting to the face. In reality there was only one option, the dangerous one, on the conveyor belt. The phrase he used was to the point. “Keep your hands in or you’ll lose ’em” I can’t remember how I translated that to Christophe, but I think we both understood the miner’s words and gestures. An unforgettable experience. I can still remember it vividly, so I presume Christophe will too, wherever life has taken him.
The Nottinghamshire Mining Museum
The Nottinghamshire Mining Museum is a people’s museum remembering and celebrating the working, social, leisure and family lives of Nottinghamshire Coal-miners. It shares the experiences and struggles of the people of the Nottinghamshire coalfields
On 21st August 2020, Nottingham City Council and the Showmen’s Guild announced the cancellation of the 729th Goose Fair. This decision was inevitable I suppose
The incredible photograph above is by Nottingham photographer, Lamar Francois. It shows the fun and the joy of the Goose Fair, an abstract take of the Big Wheel and Tower Slide attractions.
Lamar is offering for sale a limited number of the image, and each on sold will include a donation of £1 from each print sold will be donated to Autism East Midlands. See Lamar’s website for details
Porchester Press is making a similar pledge. For every sale of the paperback version of The Showman, a donation of £2 will be made to Autism East Midlands. This offer will run until 31st December 2020.
Nottingham City Council gave this statement about the decision
Despite current Government regulations allowing fairground rides and attractions to open, the challenge for the council’s Events team and the Showmen’s Guild has been how to manage the 420,000 visitors who attend the five-day event, while maintaining social distancing and ensuring that other Covid-safe measures are in place. Several options were considered, including creating a number of timed sessions to limit capacity to 25,000 people, or extending the length of the fair to ten days. However, neither of these options came close to providing capacity for the more than 400,000 visitors who would normally attend. The other consideration was one of atmosphere. With reduced numbers, social distancing measures in place and lowered music levels, it was felt that if the event had been staged, much of the traditional atmosphere would have been lost.
Here’s a section from ‘The Showman’ where Michael attends the Goose Fair in 1978
Now within sight of the fairground, Michael could appreciate the location better in daylight. The fair actually covered about a third of a large public park, flanked by a wooded hillside. The sun was out and although low in the sky behind him, it was warm enough to create a mist-like vapour to rise from the dew on the grassed areas away from the trees. He could see activity in and around the fair but he was one of only a few pedestrians.
At the first opportunity he asked a stall holder where he could find Bob Collins’ Waltzer. He was given vague directions which did not really help, but he soon found it. As he approached, some men were removing a tarpaulin cover from the side of the ride.
“Is Mr Collins around?”
“You after lost property?”
“No, I’ve been told that he may be able to help me about the history of the fair.”
“He’s over at the Big Wheel. He’ll have a black woolly hat on.”
Michael made his way to the Big Wheel that was right in the centre of the fair. A man in a black woolly hat was talking to some other men near to the control booth. He was about sixty years old and wearing a black workman’s jacket that had an orange patch across the shoulders on the back. Music was playing and the lights were flashing but the wheel itself was still.
“Mr Collins?” said Michael
“Who wants him?”
“I’m told you may be able to help me find out about my family who worked on the fairs.”
“No, English but with an Italian name. Mattoni?”
Mr Collins had a wise and weathered face that suggested he was astute. Despite this, his looked to the ground and paused. The name had clearly meant something to him.
“Who are you to them?”
“I’m Michael, born to the family in 1948 but taken to America as a baby after my mother died.”
Mr Collins looked thoughtful and nodded his head very slightly after he listened to what Michael was saying. He reached inside the control booth and turned the music off then whistled to attract the attention one of the men nearby. The man came over.
“Start her up Joe! I’m going to take a ride with this gentleman. Check each car in turn for safety.”
Mr Collins then turned to Michael.
“We open in about half an hour. Jump in and I’ll see what you know. I don’t know much to be honest.”
They got into a car on the Big Wheel, an open bench that behaved like a rocking chair. A metal bar was closed and locked into place across their thighs. The wheel started its rotation, moving forward then up and round, stopping as each of the sixteen cars reached the gangway. Michael felt like he was on the second hand of a giant clock, time ticking away with each stop. He felt as though he had sixty hypothetical ‘seconds’ to get whatever information Bob Collins had for him. Once the wheel had turned its full circle, his time would be up. Michael told him all that he knew. He blurted it out in almost one breath. Whilst Michael knew very little, it was his account of Rosie going to the United States, raising a family before dying of cancer that seemed to resonate with Bob Collins. When he replied he also seemed to take a deep breath.
“Well we did not know the Mattoni’s well. I can remember the Mattoni boys and their father. The boys were similar age to me. As you have rightly said, they only produced girls. They had no sons to continue their name or the business. After the death of your mother, they must have had enough. They did not disappear, they sold up and went to Italy. Not really heard any more about them.
“How did my mother die?”
“Well you’ll have to ask the coroner about that. As we understood it she fell onto a railing.”
“On this fair ground? At the Goose Fair?”
The one word answer of Bob Collins was the most important and informative word that he had ever heard to date. It made his heart miss a beat.
Jacques Morrell has teamed up with a former journalist Simon Ford to create a new true-crime podcast that takes a fresh look at murder.
The first episode was released earlier this year having been recorded on location in Warwicksire (before the COVID lockdown).
Here’s an introduction:
On Valentine’s Day in 1945 a brutal murder took place which remains unsolved, seventy five years on. This murder was not some gangland killing where people are afraid to speak out. It was not a domestic crime of passion where the suspect got off on some legal technicality. It was not a tragic death where the actual cause is in doubt, or open to interpretation.
It is savage and brutal murder with no apparent motive. Not only that, it occurred in a sleepy village in the heart of England. If that is not enough to get you interested, then let’s throw in some local folklore and superstition, with stories of witchcraft and phantom black dogs roaming the area at night.
Let’s find out more about the location.
Lower Quinton is a small and unassuming Warwickshire village, just six miles from Stratford-upon-Avon. It is also the final resting place of the immortal Bard William Shakespeare, who was buried here in 1616.
There is a mix of the old and the new in Lower Quinton. Tudor period thatched cottages sit side-by-side with modern 1970s houses. English villages like this are not complete without at least one ancient pub or a mediaeval church. Lower Quinton has both, The College Arms and St Swithins.
St Swithins Church dates back to 1100.
It includes the tomb of Sir Henry Knight, who fought with distinction at the Battle of Agincourt.
The village consists of little more than a few streets surrounded by countryside. A place to escape from the rest of the world and find peace of mind and tranquility surely?
The thing is, Lower Quinton has a few dark secrets, and not just what happened on Valentine’s Day 1945. Secrets and superstitions that go back beyond the founding of St. Swithins nine hundred years ago. Events that go back before Lower Quinton was named and even before Julius Caesars armies marched upon these fields and claimed this land as a back-water of the Roman Empire.
If you visit Lower Quinton, you will notice the imposing plateau of Meon Hill.
Meon Hill is 194m above sea level and is visible above the farms and villages in the area. It has an odd look about it that makes it stand out. It has an almost flat top. Imagine a mound of clay with the top sliced off.
Meon Hill has existed here pretty much unchanged since the last glaciers rolled ponderously across the landscape, at the end of the last ice age.
The ancient Britons made their home here. The Druids would have performed rituals on the slopes of Meon Hill. With the arrival of Christianity, there is a local legend that reminds the locals of good and evil. It is said that the Devil tried to destroy the abbey at Evesham by hurling a huge mound of earth at it. The Bishop of Worcester saw the flying mountain and prayed for salvation. His prayers were answered and the missile came down next to Lower Quinton, to form Meon Hill.
Let’s bring ourselves more up to date, to Valentine’s Day 1945 and the events that took place at Firs Farm on the slopes of Meon Hill.
The Second World War had been raging for over 5 years. The war has taken its toll on the country, even in quiet farming communities like Lower Quinton. The farms were providing essential food for the people but farm workers were in short supply. Most young men were serving in the armed forces. Women were taking on roles usually done by the men. There was rationing, and people were struggling. There was also a nearby Prisoner of War camp.
Edith Walton lived with her 74 year old uncle named Charles Walton.
Charles was an agricultural worker and had lived in Lower Quinton all his life.
He had lived at 15 Lower Quinton since World War I.
On the day of the murder, Edith Walton had been working and returned home at 6pm. Concerned that her uncle was not at home, she went to see her neighbour, and together they made their way to Firs Farm to alert the manager Alfred Potter.
Potter had seen Charles earlier in the day, slashing hedges in a part of the farm named Hillground. The three of them set out in the semi-darkness, to check the location where Charles had been working.
When they reached Hillground, Edith was completely unprepared for what she discovered. She was immediately overcome with grief and shock, and began to scream loudly. Harry Beasley tried to pacify her and bring her away from the appalling scene before them.
Charles Walton’s body was lying near to a hedgerow. He was clearly dead. Like all corpses, it take the finder a few seconds for the finder to recognise it as a corpse. Even bodies that have no obvious injuries can appear strangely unreal. The position of their lifeless limbs can often make them not look human. The position of Charles Walton’s body was certainly odd. The injuries told those present that this was a murder, and a savage one.
Charles had been beaten repeatedly over the head with his own walking stick. He had also received horrific injuries from the tools and implements he needed for his work. His neck was cut open with the slash hook. He was also pinned to the ground. The prongs of his pitchfork had been driven either side of his neck and into the earth. The handle of the pitchfork had then been wedged under a cross member of the hedge and the slash hook had been buried in his neck. Charles Walton was not meant to survive this attack. His killer (or killers) had made sure of that.
A Murder Investigation was launched, and the Chief Constable sent the following message to Scotland Yard:
I would like Scotland Yard to assist in a brutal case of murder that took place yesterday.
The deceased is a man named Charles WALTON, age 75, and he was killed with an instrument known as a slash hook. The murder was either committed by a madman or one of the Italian prisoners who are in a camp nearby. The assistance of an Italian interpreter would be necessary, I think.
Dr Webster states deceased was killed between 1 and 2 pm yesterday. A metal watch is missing from the body. It is being circulated.
Find out more about the case by listening to the Six O’Clock Knock, a brand-new true-crime podcast, taking a fresh look at murder.
More recording in the grounds of St Swithins Church
As a child, Aileen Wuornos was subjected to repeated sexual, physical, and mental abuse. This was at the hands of her grandfather who raised her as his own, after her birth mother rejected her.
As an adult, Aileen Wuornos became a sex worker, and she made a living from it, moving to Florida when she was in her 30s. The effect of this lifestyle may have begun to to take its toll on her.
Between 1989 and 1990 she shot dead seven men who had picked her up as a hitchhiker. She would then end up drinking alcohol with them. After killing them, she would take their vehicle and steal cash and other valuables.
There is a theory that she killed these particular men because they either expected sex in return for the lift, or they attempted to rape her. She shot them because they were taking liberties, just like her grandfather had during her childhood.
She was executed for her crimes by lethal injection on October 9, 2002.
Here is what Patrick Tobin wrote about the Aileen Wuornos story.
I've always enjoyed playing about with words, like writing lyrics or short stories at school. The first one I really finished was titled The Ballad of Aileen Wuornos.
I learnt about Aileen Wuornos in 2002 after watching a documentary about her impending execution. I stayed up for nights just thinking about the circumstances of her life. I saw in her a story of an injustice which exploded down the barrel of a gun. She shot seven men dead whilst working as a prostitute on the highways of America.
I connected with her. The way she was mistreated as a child, how she found herself on the outside of society at such a young age. I can't condone what she did, but I can understand why she did it.
What worries me is she only came to prominence through her crimes. Before she murdered those men she was just another hooker on the highway looking for a trick to buy her next fix. A cliché, but true. Her mental health issues were never really recognized until it was too late and she was out of control. She wasn't born to kill these men. It was the circumstances of her childhood which developed her rage. Her childhood consumed her as a young woman into adulthood, and would lead her to murder.
The injustice lies in the way she was treated by a system that should have recognised her vulnerability as an abused child, rather than exploiting her notoriety as a convicted murderer. America's first so called female serial killer. The consequences of Aileen Wuornos’ life may be the death of those men and her execution, but what happened prior to her killing spree went a long way to outline the reasons for her actions.
The ballad I wrote was directed by the need to express the injustice I saw in her life. The criminal case against her became a media circus. It was also a way for me to express myself through her story.
Read more of Patrick Tobin’s thoughts in his memoirs about a life with schizophrenia.
Homesake is available on Amazon Kindle via this link
His mother died on 8th May 1898 when he only two years old.
His father Peter Dawson couldn’t look after him and he was sent to a relative in Manchester.
Peter Dawson’s parents were John Dawson (a silk mill manager) and Sarah Morrell, who came from a family of market gardeners in Cheshire. The Morrells had links to the Trafford family.
Ernest and his siblings were sent to Pendleton in Salford, to their Auntie Sarah and Uncle George. They did not have a happy childhood, despite the fact that Uncle George was an interesting character. He used to be in the Music Halls as a contortionist. He was tattooed all over and as bald as a coot. He used to do a contortionist act dressed as Mephistopheles.
Ernest was so unhappy in his childhood, that he got away from Manchester at the first opportunity. His father (in the mean-time) had found work in Nottingham on the big railway project that was under way. He was living in the Meadows area of Nottingham, where Ernest joined him. This would have been just before the outbreak of WWI.
Here are what exists of his army service, taken from photographs, documents and diaries.
The war gave Ernest the opportunity to get away from the circumstances he found himself.
He enlisted in the army, something which he had no regrets in doing.
He joined the Royal Horse Artillery and Royal Field Artillery in 1915.
He was 19 years old.
Ernest’s army service is preserved in various photographs, documents and diaries.
Here is his Soldiers Diary of 1918. These contained all kinds of vital information for the soldier. Things such as the kind of information required when making reports, and the types of weapons in use by the ‘fighting powers’. For instance, the Lee Enfield .303 (used by the British) had a longer range than the others. It also helped the soldier understand the words and terms he would hear people say. Terms like ‘Chucking a Dummy’ meaning fainting on parade, or ‘on the tack’, to describe someone who was teetotal.
After his initial training, Ernest landed in Egypt in 1915, where he spent a period in a place called Sollum
In addition to riding a camel, Ernest had also learnt to ride horses.
He was clearly enjoying his military adventure and was proud of his achievements.
The photograph below has the following written on it: Ernest on lead horse of the best team in Egypt!
It is not clear what military engagements he was involved with in Egypt from 1915 to 1918.
The Royal Field Artillery (Territorial Force) was a field artillery brigade formed from three Territorial Force Royal Horse Artillery batteries in January 1916. It was assigned to the 52nd (Lowland) Division to replace I Lowland Brigade, RFA (T.F.) and joined the division in Egypt. The brigade was reformed as horse artillery in July 1917, seeing active service in in the Sinai and Palestine Campaign in 1917 and 1918. It remained in Palestine on occupation duties after the end of the war and was finally disbanded in November 1919.
However his diary of 1918 indicates they had moved into Palestine.
Here are some of his photographs that remind us of the reality of Ernest’s war.
“Two hours after this photo we were shelled by the enemy.”
“Carrying a wounded Sergeant out of action.”
“After the battle. A dead German”
The realities of war meant that the likelihood of injury or death was high.
Soldiers Diary of 7th June 1918
14th July 1918
17th July 1918
Ernest’s injuries, from shellfire, were to his left arm and thigh.
It would appear that, after recovering from his wounds, he remained in Palestine and Egypt. Despite his discharge certificate being issued at Woolwich on 26th Jan 1919, he re-enlisted at Kantara in Egypt, the following day.
The Character Certificate issued Gunner Ernest Dawson stated that he had served 2 years and 255 Days, and described him as
Very good. Honest, sober and hard working.
Ernest had enjoyed the army, and with the uncertainty of what life would be like back in England, he chose re-enlist, whilst at Kantara, Egypt on 27th January 1919.
Kantara was the site of Headquarters of the Eastern Force during the defence of the Suez Canal Campaign and the Sinai Campaign of 1916. It was a massive distribution warehouse and hospital centre that supported and supplied all British, Australian and New Zealand operations in the Sinai from 1916 until final demobilization in 1919.
Ernest was then allowed home on leave and returned to Nottingham.
His father encouraged him to marry a young woman named Eva Miles. Eva had moved to Nottingham for work and was friends with a family that his father knew well. Eva had been helping to care for injured soldiers in Nottingham. He agreed to marry her.
Ernest married Eva on 15th November 1919 at the Mayfield Grove Chapel in Nottingham.
He was then posted to India at a place called Cannanore.
His wife was now with him.
He would soon be serving in the Mesopotamia Campaign, where he was promoted to Bombardier Sgt with the 505 Battery of the Royal Field Artillery.
The British built a large military cantonment to the east of the city of Poona where the Southern Command of the Indian Army was established in 1895..
Ernest did not keep a diary at this point, or if he did, it is lost. There are photographs, though of his time in ‘Mespot’.
His new wife Eva did keep a diary for a few weeks in 1921. It helps to explain her circumstances in India, where she was an army wife.
1st Jan 1921 – Letter from Ernest from Deolali
Deolali Transit Camp was a transit camp for British troops in Deolali India. Notorious for its unpleasant environment, boredom, and the psychological problems of soldiers that passed through it. Its name is the origin of the phrase ‘gone doolally’ or doolally tap’, a phrase meaning to lose one’s mind.
3rd Jan – Ernest embarked at Bombay for Mespot.
4th Jan – Fancy Dress Dance. Enjoyable evening. Some fun over the dress beforehand.
12th Jan – Details arrived in Basra in Mespot.
19th Jan – Walk on beach with Mrs Littlewood Mrs Bennet and Scottie.
20th Jan – Went on the beach with the Cannanite Rangers. Swim in morning.
21st Jan – Whist Drive and Dance at night. Swim in Morning.
23rd Jan – Frightened with rat under the mosquito net. Fed up with Cannanore.
Cannanore is a city now known as Kannur in the southern Indian state of Kerala. It is over 1000km south of Bombay (Mumbai). During British rule in India, it was a part of the Malabar District (Madras Presidency).
The military base in Cannanore was at St Angelos Fort. On 15 February 1663, the Dutch captured the fort from the Portuguese. They modernised the fort and built the bastions Hollandia, Zeelandia and Frieslandia that are the major features of the present structure. The original Portuguese fort was pulled down later. A painting of this fort and the fishing ferry behind it can be seen in the Rijksmuseum Amsterdam. The Dutch sold the fort to King Ali Raja of Arakkal in 1772. In 1790 the British seized it and used it as their chief military station in Malabar until 1947.
Eva’s diary continues to give us a brief insight into her life as an army wife in India. They have been in India for a year and she is clearly looking forward to returning home to ‘Blighty.’
27th Jan – Visited Mrs Cheetham in Hospital. 3 new born babies in 17th Brigade.
28th Jan – (a year since Ernest left home) Scottie left the camp. Whist Drive and Dance. Some of women going home but not me.
29th Jan – No news of home. All excited waiting for news. Walk in Bazar
31st Jan – Went to Dursee for new dress and skirt. In recreation room at night.
1st Feb – Whist drive and dance. Presentation to Mrs Christie on leaving the camp.
2nd Feb – Ethels 21st Birthday. Sorry I have not been able to be with her.
4th Feb – No pay today and no news from Poona. Whist Drive and Dance.
6th Feb – Walk in big Bazar. Saw terrible sights among natives. Smallpox etc.
7th Feb – First letter from Ernest in Mespot also name in for Blighty. 3 women in Battery for home.
9th Feb – Signed Documents for home. More names in for 17th Bde. Bobyjee sorry I am going home.
14th Feb – In Recreation room singing and telling fortunes. Flannel issued for home.
15th Feb – Farewell whist drive and dance. Presentation to Mrs Willis and Mrs Madden.
17th Feb – Sports for Kiddies. Confined to camp trouble with the natives.
18th Feb – Steel Cabin Trunks issued. Letter from Mespot. Whist Drive and dance. News of Ernest’s promotion.
20th Feb – Played whist in Rec. Finished packing for home. No mail.
21st Feb – Months pay for Blighty. Leaving Camp 10pm tonight. Farewell dinner.
22nd Feb – In train bound for Bombay.
25th Feb – Reached Bombay 8 o’clock am. Embarked Zeppelin for home
26th Feb – Ship cannot sail. Wire round propeller.
28th Feb – Saw Duke of Connaught leave Bombay on Malaya – Sailed for home.
The Duke of Connaught, was the seventh child of Queen Victoria and Prince Albert. He was educated by private tutors before entering the Royal Military Academy, where he was commissioned as a lieutenant in the British Army. He served for some 40 years, seeing service in various parts of the British Empire. In 1921, he travelled to India, where he officially opened the new Central Legislative Assembly, Council of State, and Chamber of Princes. Though he retired from public life in 1928, he continued to make his presence known in the army well into the Second World War, before his death in 1942. He was Queen Victoria’s last surviving son.
Eva returns home to England, but has to wait some time for her husband to join her.
Ernest, meanwhile is still on active service in Mesopotamia.
Despite the war being over, the area now needed managing, and administration putting in place. This area would go on to becoming the Iran.
With British Indian forces already on the ground, the British imported civil servants from India who had previous knowledge and experience on how the government of a colony is supposed to run. The expulsion of Ottomans from the region shook the centuries-old power balance. Arabs who believed that the expulsion of the Ottomans would lead to greater independence and fought against the Ottoman forces along the Allies faced another dilemma. They were disappointed with the arguments regarding the establishment of British Mandate of Mesopotamia.
When Ernest finally returned from Mesopotamia, he brought with him an album on images.
Finally, on June 13th 1922, Bombardier Sergeant Ernest Dawson of the 505 Battery Royal Field Artillery was discharged.
His military career was completed.
In his Character Certificate, issued at Fort Wallington in Fareham Hampshire, he was described as
Is sober. Has been instructor of signalling in the unit. Knows his work well. Is very keen and has worked hard. Can ride and look after horses.
Along with his memories and scars from his time in the army, he also returned with these photographs of two other soldiers. It is presumed that they were close friends who served with him. It is not known what happened to them, or whether Ernest kept in touch with them.
After his final discharge from the army, Ernest and Eva settled in Nottingham and raised three children, son’s Kenneth and Dennis, and daughter Betty. All went on to have families of their own.
Ernest found work as a manager at a number of public baths in the city.
Eva died on 31st Oct 1957 at Nottingham’s General Hospital, she was 60 years old.
Ernest died on 21st June 1986 at Nottingham City Hospital. He was 90 years old.
Since the launch of his debut novel in 2017, we though it was time to find out what Jacques Morrell has been up to since.
Having described himself as a ‘Jacques of all trades and master of none’, who knows what he might have got himself into?
A quick check of his social media accounts, he seems to have added a podcast to his repertoire, although this seems to have started in February this year (2020).
We asked Jacques to reflect on his status as ‘a published author’ and where his writing has taken him since The Showman was published.
Apart from the countless requests from the media for interviews, and the daily fan mail through the door, it’s been fairly steady.
Joking aside, what it has done is to allow me to meet other writers on an equal footing. Writing is about learning to create pieces of work. It is about finding a style of writing that suits you.
The Showman came naturally and organically. It was always going to be a suspense thriller with an atmosphere of the paranormal. I think most people expected it to be a crime thriller. Some people have in fact encouraged me to write for that genre. These people are academics and professional in the business. They see the advantage that I have with my policing experience.
So have you taken that on board?
Not yet. I have also attended a few workshops for writers and literary people. I learnt a few things from them. In particular, I learnt to play around with ideas and words. I was encouraged to try writing in different styles, poetry, short stories, vignettes, comedy, script-writing etc. This taught me to be open minded about my writing. It helps to focus on how I write. To make the best use of it and to make it more meaningful.
I went to a talk by Henry Normal about comedy script writing. Henry is a comedian who went on to write and produce some of the finest English comedy shows of the last 30 years. He gave us advice on script ideas for sit-coms. He advised on what the production companies will look for, such as the ideal number of characters, the setting, the target audience, even the cost of producing it. I had already been playing around with an idea for a comedy, centred around a group of retired police officers.
I went away and worked on it. I got talking to someone in the pub who was also writing a comedy script. We shared ideas. It is almost ready as a script, but there is one character who hasn’t quite found her identity yet. There is something missing and I am not ready to release it yet. It could equally be a short story too.
So apart from those ‘media interviews’, have you been telling your story to people?
Yes, I suppose so. I have spoken to reading groups and book groups about my career and my writing. I was also interviewed by Giorgia, one of the young ambassadors at the Nottingham City of Literature. The interview is online here
I have learnt that The Showman seems to be well received by the younger generation of reader. Initially I though it was the context of it being set in 1978, but I also think it may be down to the style it was written. This review probably explains it better.
The words this person has used makes me feel proud that they have understood the innocence of the characters in The Showman. That is exactly how I see them, a wholesome and naive family caught up in a very difficult situation.
What else have you been working on?
I have made a good start on my memoirs. The story of my police career, starting with ‘First Shift’..
I don’t want you to confuse my first shift with ‘First Shift’, which is the morning shift. When I first wore the uniform, this was from 6 am to 2 pm. It was the first shift of the policing day, followed by days, afternoons, evenings and nights. I suppose the night shift could have been called ‘Last Shift’, but working through the night was dangerous enough, without the added connotation of it being your last shift. My very first shift was an afternoon shift. 'Afters' is always a busy time for the police. I have no idea what day of the week it fell on. Days of the week are immaterial to police officers. The police rota covers seven days in a week, and apart from some quieter periods, it is the ‘same shit’ that goes off. Burglars don’t look at the calendar and say to their partners,‘Blimey it’s Friday already. We’re at the theatre tonight with Oliver and Abigail. I think I’ll screw a couple of houses this morning and knock off at lunch-time. Drug dealers don’t send a text to their customers saying, ‘Have a great weekend everyone and stay safe. Back Monday from 9 am’. People in crisis do not limit their psychotic episodes or cries for help to office hours.
So when will the memoirs be published?
I have paused it for the moment due to the podcast taking up quite a lot of time?
It’s going well. There are three of us involved, me and a couple of guys who used to work together at the BBC a few years ago. One is the producer and the other the presenter. They are both very bright and professional. I suppose I bring the authentic voice of a copper. We take a fresh look at cases.
I think we are all enjoying it for what it is, a serious bit of fun. Looking at old cases helps me keep my detective brain ticking over.
That sounds good fun. So what else is new?
There is a new apartment block where my first police station used to stand. I took a few photos before it was developed.
Oh, and I forgot to mention, those media interviews did happen
I don’t consider myself a poet. That said, I do enjoy the freedom and the lack of conformity that poetry allows people. It is another way to express ourselves.
Some of my writing ideas come from snippets of what I suppose is poetry. I find it a useful way of playing around with words, to make an impact.
My home city of Nottingham has built up a supportive community of poets. The annual Nottingham Poetry Festival runs for over week and brings in established and published poets.
There is also the DIY Poets, a collective that has been in existence for over ten years. The aim of DIY Poets is to give budding poets the opportunity to perform their work in public. They create an atmosphere where poets feel confident about performing their work in public. They also want the public to see that poetry can be exciting and relevant.
Nottingham’s poetry community is also privileged to be supported by the work of Miggy Angel and his regular Do Or Die poetry events. Do Or Die Poets are the attendees of his weekly creative writing workshop. Miggy’s own words explain it perfectly:
The Do Or Die Poets are writers in recovery, who have found a way to marshal the word to the cause of survival, and their courageous poetry will leave you broken open and etched anew. Like all good and true poetry should.
I attended one of these events and, whilst unprepared, I felt obliged to present something of my own. I hurriedly put some words together and had a go. Not really performance poetry, more reading aloud with emphasis.
These words were the ideas for the following piece. It is there to represent all of us in our teenage years, when we were finding out about life. It is expressed by referring to the music that was ‘unique’ to the teenagers form every generation.
I never danced to Chubby Checker, or for that matter Desmond Dekker.
Your time. No better. No worse
Teenage. Carefree. Uncertain.
Rose coloured by the passage of time.
Intangible Time. You’ll turn to stone if not already set in it.
One day those eighteen yellow roses will wilt and die.
Phoney Beatle Mania. Summer Holidays
Special without the Specials. Motown not Ghost Town.
Not my generation nor my optimism. Not my genre nor my insecurity.
Our time will come. Five years. Sweet sixteen to twenty-one.
Their time has gone. Roots, radicals and rockers.
Beatles and Stones. Revolution stuff. What a Drag.
My time was evolving. Not quite ready. Five years. Coming of age.
Same emotions. Different era. Musical Continuity.
Flowers and Herbs. Electric warriors. Glam and Sweet.
Yet We’re All Crazee Now. A lack of taste. Out of touch.
New attitude. New Reasons. Political.
White Riot. What a Waste. New Wave. Never Too Much.
Red Wedge. Blue Monday. New Clubs and Bars.
New Romance. Modern Romance. Sentimental.
London hadn’t burnt. The dark club has a brighter name.
The romance was in a different corner. Taking stock.
Aitken and Waterman. Are the kids alright?
Café Bleu. Cool. Continental.
Britpop and Techno. Innovate and Rave
Pop was never dead. Anyone Can Play Guitar.
If they want to. You get what you give.
Just need some teen spirit and a wannabe.
Happy Hardcore. Nirvana or Bitter Sweet Symphony
Drum and bass. Trip-Hop. New Radicals.
The Noughties. I’m stood watching. Not dancing.
A certain romance with no fake tales from San Francisco.
Bolshie. All killer no filler. More honesty.
Flipside. Electro Piracy.
Post- Punks and Electronica.
Streaming and downloads. Panic at the disco.
The Teen Years. The Jean Genie has left the bottle.
The Radical Rockers are fifty years on. Some are gone for good.
Rose coloured glasses are back.
Daltrey. Morrissey. Ringo Starr. Unable to define the E in EDM.
Molten mix of rap and samples. Drake. Kanye. Hip Hop goes country.
Teens dancing to a different tune. Taking us Back to Black.
Whether we danced to Chubby Checker, or for that matter Desmond Dekker.
We all had our time. For five years it was on our side.
Slave to the rhythm. Jump to the beat.
Let’s twist again. Dancing in the street.
Death of a disco dancer. Maybe in the next world
Those eighteen yellow roses will wilt and die.
On the 10th November 1942, the 1st Derbyshire Yeomanry Regiment sailed from the UK for North Africa.
My 19 year old father (Dennis Dawson) was one of them. He had enlisted at Catterick on 23rd April 1942. His Army Pay Book shows his Army Number as 7958147.
Apart from a couple of short periods of leave, he did not return to his home city of Nottingham until late in 1946. When he did return, his parents had moved from 15 Melbourne Road in Lady Bay to the Manning Baths on Hawthorne Street in the Meadows.
My father died in 2014 at the age of 91.
He was not one those war veterans who never spoke about the war, nor was he one to keep referring to those times. He would mention things when asked to. He was, thankfully someone who kept the documents, photographs and diaries that are gathered over the years.
His personal diaries for 1944 and 1946 have survived. I don’t know whether he kept one between 1942 and 1943, but if he did, they have gone for good.
He also kept postcards that he purchased from the places he visited.This was something my grandfather had also done during the Great War. He had also served in the Middle East and Mesopotamia up to 1922. I suppose, with cameras and photography not so readily available, it was a way of remembering the places visited.
This article is a combination of documents that my father kept, with some text taken from the 1st Derbyshire Yeomanry Scrapbook 1939-47.The scrapbook was published using personal accounts of the officers who served in this period.
This is my father’s account. He had the rank of Private.
Dennis did not keep a diary for the North Africa campaign. It was against the rules, as were photographs.
There are however a few photographs. This one is from 1942 at the Transit Camp – Algiers Racecourse.He’s the man in the middle
Dennis was a decent artist.
Here is the Christmas card that he sent to his mother.
His name is bottom right.
These cards were converted to microfiche and then printed again back in England. This was to save on weight in transporting them.
During the North Africa Campaign, he also sent postcards to his sister.
26 March 1943 – Dear Betty, please send me a snake charmers flute so that I can charm these giant pythons that are surrounding my tent. Cheerio Dennis
April 1943 – Dear Betty
For the past two days it has rained and we are flooded out so much that one night one of my pals fell out of bed and nearly got drowned.
We also have 330 yards to swim for our breakfast.
Both Algeria and Tunisia were French speaking countries. The postcard of the boy is translated as ‘Ali, the little beggar, counts his takings’.
The regiment went into action as a complete unit for the first time in December 1942, at Medjez-el-Bab. From then, they were continually in action until the end of the war. The strain of continuous battle in those first 5 months was rewarded though, when the opportunity to take Tunis came. The Derbyshire Yeomanry were there, leading from the front, along with the 11th Hussars.
The famous battle in May 1943 saw the complete destruction of German Forces in North Africa.
The regiment stayed in North Africa for the rest of 1943, assisting in other operations. As the war progressed, their services would be required elsewhere.
The Regiment Move To Italy
On March 14th 1944, 14 officers and 410 other ranks under command of Major E Baring, arrived in Naples in the south west of Italy. This was part of the war in the south of Europe. The regiment moved to Piedemonte d’Alife the following day. This was a small town about 30 miles south of Cassino. The whole regiment had gathered there by 27th March.
My father kept a diary at this point. In it, he refers to the enemy as either ‘he’ or ‘Gerries’.
The following are selected entries that he made in a small ‘Boots the Chemists’ diary for 1944.
When they sailed from the port of Bone in Algeria, it would appear that they did not know their destination.
11th March – Destroyed my tin shack.
12th March – Embarked from BONE for?
13th March – Rather bad swell – many sick.
This birthday card to his mother was sent in early 1944.
It must have been drawn whilst Dennis was in North Africa.
It is a drawing of the ‘tin shack’ that had been his home during his time in Algeria and Tunisia.
It is not known why this photograph was taken or who the US soldier is.
This was taken in Naples on 14th March 1944.
14th March – Capri on our left, Docked at Naples. 8 mile march.
15th March – Transit Camp. Poverty stricken natives.
16th March – Arrived at the regimental camp.
17th March – Viewed ALIFE! Much Damage.
18th March – Usual Advance. Party Fatigues – Decent Weather.
19th March – Attempted to climb the northern ridge.
20th March – Salvaging party.
The following period was part of a concentrated preparation for the Spring Offensive.
Exercises were held to ensure the co-operation of the infantry and tanks. Several visits to Cassino were undertaken. The sight of the monastery being attacked by our troops was a taste of what was in store for them.
2nd April – Hitch Hiked to Piedmonte once again for eatables.
3rd April – Vehicles arrive. Maintenance.
4th April – Bullshit comes with a crash.
5th April – Wireless again.
6th April – ‘Five Graves to Cairo’.
7th April – Pay Parade 800 Lire.
Three officers from the regiment were detailed for duties in the advanced area.
The Regiment was put on 12 hours’ notice to move up on May 10th.
When the allied forces had reached this area (in the previous autumn of 1943), it was clear that if progress was to made towards Rome, that Cassino and its monastery must be taken.
A number of attacks were launched against it, but the tenacity of the defenders and the natural strength of its position withstood these attempts. One of the attacks included heavy air support and both the town and the monastery were reduced to ruins.
It finally fell in May 1944 in the offensive that broke the Gustav line and ended in the capture of Rome.
The Liri Valley below Cassino was protected by the River Rapido, a perfect obstacle for the tanks. Some bridgeheads had been secured but the advance was very slow due to the strength of the German defence.
‘C’ Squadron were tasked with attacking a German strong-point. They were unaided by infantry.
Leading the attack with Sherman tanks, their commander Eager Brundell was killed instantly by a sniper. Despite this and several tanks being hit by bazookas, ‘C’ Squadron prevailed.
Cassino itself was reduced to a heap of ruins and craters. The area remained infested with mines and booby traps. The devastation to this historic site was a monument to the destruction which war can bring about.
My father’s diary continued:
14th May – Reached Rapido Gustav Line.
15th May – Moving Up?
16th May – Battle of the Orchard. Casualties including Squadron Leader. Air Raid.
17th May – Day out – Much washing of whites.
18th May – Bills Tank Bogged. Narrow Miss by 50mm A/T Gun. Tank gun damaged. Mortared before dark. Very little sleep.
19th May – My Honey in Infantry support – Loads of bullets and bangs – Two tanks knocked out – two prisoners one wounded – one sniper surrendered.
The following is an extract from the Derby Evening Telegraph, after the Battle of Monte Cassino:
By May 20th the Yeomanry had advanced along Highway 6 to a position south of Aquino. As part of the British spearhead during these operations, the regiment continued to press forward despite stiffening enemy resistance, and crossed the Melfa on May 25th.
23rd May – Move up across Melfa to Route 6.
24th May – Move into position for assault on ARC.
25th May – Enemy Retires during night – Reach crossroads at ARC 10.30am – Terrific shelling – Slight wound in leg – Tank Overturns.
Many bitter rear-guard actions were fought during this advance, but the Derbyshire Yeomanry could not be halted.
They continued over the slopes of Monte Orio, and helped in the capture of Col Dragone and El Cici on May 25th.
My father’s diary continued. It included a useful entry to remind him where he was on D-Day.
5th June – Rest near ACUTO – Night march – No sleep.
6th June – Swim in bomb crater – ! ALLIES INVADE EUROPE! “Bon” – 3 Miles off Rome.
The Yeomanry now made its way up Highway 4, north-east of Rome, beside the waters of the Tiber. They met severe enemy opposition on June 8th at Monte Rotondo.
10th June – Very unpleasant shelling
11th June – Tellers play havoc – 3 tracks destroyed
12th June – Close Shelling east of the Tiber- I reverse on to box mine fortunately
13th June – Take over 4 Bakers Honey – Lofty goes bomb happy!
14th June – Harboured near Narni
15th June – Pass through MELIA! – Ford the Tiber – Walk out to the village
16th June – Huge night drive – no sleep
17th June – Still moving up – Hillside O.P – (Rain) – Certainly seeing Italy!
18th June – Liberate CASTILIOGNE – Bags of Vin-o – BAMBINA
My father obtained this postcard as they reached Perugia. He noted on it:
Notice the Fontana Bevignate on the right protected from bombs.
Vincere or Victory is painted in white.
They were our enemy at the time!
In and around Perugia, the regimentwere under command of The Guards Brigade.During the following week, they were used to support the infantry as they made their way forward, northwards into the hills.
20th June – In again beyond Perugia – Stonking!
Stonking is the military terms for heavy artillery bombardment.
23rd June – First troop beyond MARCO – Dead civilian
24th June – Beyond MARCO – By Jove – Much stonking – Valley of Death – Sleep and stonking is the order of the day – up early
25th June – Valley of Death again – More Stonking
26th June – Day In – Unfruitful look for Signorina
6th July – Road recce near Castiglione Ferontina
7th July – Recce 3 miles from Arezzo
8th July – Out near the guns – Hills from Feriontina to Arezzo occupied by Gerry infantry
10th July – Bathed in Lago Trasimeno – Visited Cortona
11th July – Encore bathe – physical maintenance – Living on the land – Much admiring of the female form – unfortunately only from distance.
18th July – Arezzo taken – town under shellfire – U1 Leaflets
19th July – Near stonking – Contradictory reports on how we lost 4 dog crew missing.
20th July – Night harbour much too near stonking
22nd July – Moving farther forward – One unidentified member of 4 dog killed by mortar – no news of other 4
24th July – East of the Arno – winkled out some infantry – quite
25th July – Engine Trouble – Hoping to get out for rest
26th July – L.A.D
No further entries are made in this diary.
In October, the diary starts again, this time using a small notepad. This allows the entries to be more detailed.
Oct 22nd – Became rivals in the pack mule business. Two Gerries in O.P on Mt Della Serra made a hurried retreat leaving all equipment behind. We occupied the hill by 4.30 and commenced to dig trenches in the most silly places! Aching in every bone and nose running like water works.
Oct 23rd – Cold has now reached its climax and if I don’t die tonight during sleep I should be rid of it inside three days. My aged bones are still aching. Fortunately we are not walking today!
Oct 24th – As you can see I didn’t die last night – but I am still in a sorry state. Rations are better than usual – apparently we are getting priority as Infantry! Blanket roll arrived!
Oct 25th – Unfortunately our turn out today and although we had a long wet night in a silly little trench, my cold didn’t worry me. Spent all next day drying clothes and toasting feet in front of a huge fire. The occupants of this particular farmhouse were rather unlucky today because we numbered too many for the one fire. And after all we were wet not they. We spent quite an amusing day admiring the seductive forms of the Signoretti’s. “Too bad we aren’t Cativer simili Tedeschi.”
Oct 27th – Returned back to Bocini innocently thinking for a rest. Rather a cheesing off day, raining, and bridge being washed away caused us to carry the darned stuff relay fashion getting very wet in the process!
Oct 28th – Whipped away en-bloc through Portico to Rocca which was now under enemy shellfire. After dark we moved to positions in the right of the valley some 1 ½ miles outside the town. Digging in, in various positions commanding the road and our front. During the day we hid in the farmhouse because we were under observation by Gerry on the opposite heights. Poor food and no room for sleep are the only grouses.
Oct 29th – Nothing much to report during the day although we did have a brief clash at 2 o’clock the following morning. Shots were exchanged, neither side being injured, result no more sleep that night.
Oct 30th – Managed to scrape a little sleep on one of the civvies beds and did an all-night trench guard. Shots and shelling on hill opposite, enemy mortaring near his own position. Our signalman dies by shellfire!
Oct 31st – Good food and a little sleep in half way house. Learnt we were returning to Dicamano that night. Returned to Rocca with mules no shell fire.
Lt-Col Walker wrote in the Scrapbook:
As infantrymen in the hills beyond the San Benedetto Pass, the prospects of a winter in Florence sounded almost too good to be true. We were given the village of Settignano. A, B and C Squadrons were in different villas here up the hill and well above the mist line, which is such a feature of Florence during the winter months.
Nov 5th – New quarter at a well to do villa outside Florence, arrived here during the night. Weather cold but dry.
Nov 21st – Left the Castella for the line, having been told that we were on a stretcher bearing job. Billeting some ten miles from ‘Castella Del Rio’. Dry weather and fire in billet made our stay reasonably pleasant.
Nov 25th – Reluctantly dragged away to an A.D.S somewhere in the area of the rear guns. Learned that all these tales of bags of grub and hot sweet tea are a myth. Tomorrow we move!
Nov 26th – At dusk we move up on foot carrying small kit and one blanket. We arrived at our respective posts without any shelling although rain made the going pretty hard. The post incidentally was a strengthened cellar underneath the rubble of a destroyed house.
Nov 27th – Today we spent undercover although visibility was very poor managing a wash and improving the fire. Three tanks, our own can be seen disabled by shellfire not 20 yards away from the house. Also two six-pounder anti-tank guns behind the house and Gerry ammo on the ceiling above.
Nov 28th – Today the mist cleared and we were able to have a decent look at our unusual position. We could see 3 post 200 yards away, sheltering behind a large knoll – not 10 yards a heavy mortar section. Also we could see a Vickers heavy machine gun position 100 yards to our front. That afternoon he laid a stonk in the area of 182 posts causing us to wish we had never been born. One hit was scored on 1 post injuring two of the boys slightly and sending the rest home happy! Told we would be relieved the following night.
Nov 29th – Everyone was touchy today, the slightest whine of a shell broke up any conversation. Hopes are high for being relieved tonight – I have my doubts! Two walking casualties came in just before the relief arrived, their first go in the line, bad luck!
Once again we learn that stretcher bearing is the order of the day. The house we are in is not one hundred yards from a Bailey Bridge and during the night he centred his stonk on us. One direct hit on the roof injuring four and one just outside riddling the scout car and also killing a cow, or rather wounding it rather badly necessitating the Ities to finish it off by cutting its throat. It’s surprising how close a shell can land without it having your name on it!
The village Fontanelice is the last we hold before Toscagnano – still in enemy hands. And to reach the various posts we disembark and turn left in the village and continue down the lane until we reach the pontoon foot bridge crossing the river. Then the walk is a matter of climbing a range of hills travelling parallel with the enemy line. Not so strange as it may seem, the enemy shells the village whenever there is troop movement and usually at night having no observation caused us all to remark on the accuracy of his shell timing. Since then one woman was detained and was found to be a spy – they say she also gave 13 names of her accomplices. So now this village has been evacuated of civilians.
No further entries were recorded in the notebook
Lt-Col Walker continues:
It is difficult to express one’s thoughts before a campaign as, unfortunately we are not all made alike. There is a lot of truth in the old adage, ‘One’s an meat is another man’s poison. I know that when we left Florence after a very comfortable winter, I could not have viewed the prospects of another campaign with more misgivings, in spite of the chances that it would really be the last one.
The three weeks we spent at Pesaro brought us down to realities once again.
The intention of the 8th army was to destroy the enemy south of the RiverPo, not more than 50 miles away from our existing front-line. It did not appear it would be a long campaign. Therefore it was with a fairly light heart that we moved from Pesaro to Cesena, which was to be the Divisional Concentration Area.
Prior to the 2nd May 1945, C Squadron was ordered to push the enemy up into the hills north of Spilimbergo, which they did, capturing 1,200 prisoners.
The only other incident of note was meeting up with the world heavyweight boxing champion Primo Carnero.
He had returned to Italy after his retirement but had been imprisoned by Mussolini.
Now liberated, he came out to shake the hands of every Derby Yeomanry soldier who entered the village, including my father.
On 5th May 1945, Major General Murray issued a Special Order of The Day:
The attack by 26th Armoured Brigade and the Derbyshire Yeomanry between April 18th and 23rd, broke the German Line on a 20 mile front south of the Po, and paved the way to final victory.
Finally, the war in Europe was over.
Austria and Yugoslavia.
Towards the end of the war, ‘C’ Squadron had some encounters with the Yugoslavs.
Each case had the novel and somewhat insidious role of rescuing our ‘enemies’ from our ‘allies’. The first occasion was shortly after the fall of Udine, when Tito (the Yugoslav Communist) had wanted to annex parts of Italy including Venezia Guilia. This did not suit the British, as we wanted to use Trieste as a supply base when we reached Austria. The road between Trieste and Klagenfurt happened to pass through Venezia Guilia.
It was during this tense period that ‘C’ Squadron came across a column of Chetniks. The Chetniks had sided with the Germans and were now fleeing Tito. ‘C’ Squadron allowed them through to their safety, shortly followed by Tito’s soldiers. Tito’s men had to be slowed down, so they were ‘greeted’ and told that there was a problem. They were deliberately delayed due to the strange coincidence of two of our tanks blocking both bridges, due to mechanical problems!
Tito’s communists also has plans to annex a part of Austria named Carinthia.
This was another task for ‘C’ Squadron. To keep the peace in these regions.
‘The 1st Derbyshire Yeomanry went abroad in November 1942, was the first into Tunis and fought its way up Italy into Austria. I wrote this on the banks of a lake in Carinthia, where the water is so warm that, when you emerge you are tempted to jump back. Snow lies on the distant peaks.The national press have given the wring impression of life out here. There is much work to be done, vehicles have to be maintained and guards have to be mounted. There is a post to be manned high up in the mountains, guarding the Yugo-Slav border.’
‘C’ Squadron was high up the mountain side at Bad Vellach, near a road block at Seeberg Pass. This area was 5000 feet up the steep slopes, covered with pine and mountain fir. On either side were walls of brown rock, splashed with snow in the fissures. In front was Yugoslavia, a bare and rugged land. A stout barrier separated the British from the Yugoslav post. The rest of the frontier was marked by a jagged wall, which had to be patrolled at night, no easy task.
Extract from the Derbyshire Advertiser, August 31st 1945.
My father Dennis noted:
We were posted in Bad Vellach, to maintain guard on the frontier post and visit hill farms looking for German soldiers. We had a small unit of Cossack soldiers and horses at a stables with us. I would borrow my favourite, ‘Mousey’ and take him along mountain tracks.
In the New Year of 1946, ‘C’ Squadron was under the command of Major Ospalak who was stationed at the headquarters near Vicenzia in Northern Italy. This was at a place called Villa Tacchi.
On January 19th, the Squadron left for the Middle East again.
This involved a long road journey to the southern Italian port of Taranto.
On January 25th, the regiment set sail on a flat bottomed Canadian lake boat named The Princess Kathleen. The journey took 72 hours and they arrived at Port Said in Egypt on January 28th.
Lt-Col Wall wrote about the transfer to the Middle East:
“The cold was intense for a memorable journey to Taranto. No one can forget this monstrous journey, a question in the House of Commons ensured that those that followed were better cared for. On January 25th the regiment (in great spirits in spite of every conceivable form of discomfort), embarked on a small unimpressive flat-bottomed Canadian lake boat – The Princess Kathleen – for Port Said. The next 72 hours produced incidents as revolting as they were humourous.”
My father’s diary seemed to confirm this account.
Sat 19th – Completely packed to move but train driver lost his way and was said to be at ‘Milan’.
Sunday 20th – Moved by T.C.U to train. Started the great trek at 5.40pm doing steady 2 knots. Slept between seats.
Monday 21st – Meal at Bologna 2.00am. Woke for breakfast at 10.30 south of Rimini. Followed the sea. Poverty of the south.
Tuesday 22nd – Tea and biscuits only since previous evening. Beautiful countryside – but very barren. Taranto in the rain and transit camp.
Wednesday 23rd – Languishing in leaking tents – rotten food – stayed in the canteen for warmth – Local dance band very good.
Friday 25th – We march to and board The Princess Kathleen in the rain. Wind and violent rocking during night.
Saturday 26th – We march to and board The Princess Kathleen in the rain. Wind and violent rocking during night.
Sunday 27th – Seas calmed during the night. Grey sky dirty sea – swell. 15 knots.
Held my own at cards. Bought Turkish delight, sweets, fags and wallet from ships canteen.
My father’s diary continued:
Monday 28th – Port Said during breakfast. Disembarked late afternoon by landing craft. Trained after dark to camp Suez. Boiled eggs, bananas, nuts, tea! Camp and tents.
Tuesday 29th – Natives an evil crowd. Page out of boys’ adventure book. Camped in desert – endless flat sand and pebbles. Dotted with tents and ugly brick buildings.
Sunday 3rd February – Ismailia – Tremendous lake – numerous checks – shoe shiners – good food – bought pair of shoes.
Monday 4th – Thumbed our way to Cairo – leaned a harsh lesson at the hands of native vendors and dragon guides.
Tuesday 5th – Did the inevitable – Pyramids Sphinx – Amusing guide. Streets dangerous with multifarious cars.
Wednesday 6th – Egyptian museums much too interesting for short time at our disposal. 2 o’clock train.
Sunday 10th – Trained to Alexandria.
Monday 11th – Unloaded vehicles off ship at docks. Towed back. Repairing many mechanical faults. Good canteen.
Tuesday 12th – Main party away. Still repairing. Alex still tensions.
Wednesday 13th February – Motored back to camp through sandstorm in western desert. Arrived back after dark.
There were no further entries until:
Wednesday 17th April – Motored in the early morning to Kadr-ek-Nil Barracks Cairo. Potential protection in case of revolt etc. A.T.C so near and yet so far.
Thursday 18th April – Sun very warm! Discovered the Egyptian Museum next door. Spent afternoon in the city. Billiards.
Friday 19th April – Splendid view of bridge and Nile from our balcony. Saw a little more of the museum – Must imbibe the lot before we move.
Sat 20th April – Crossed the Nile to El Alamein Club. Many small yachts playing with the breeze. Checking up on Hoskale.
Sunday 21st April – Piquet! Swam during my time off in the camp swimming pool. Water poisonous, waves high.
My father made no more entries in his diary.
On June 1st 1946, ‘C’ Squadron were required to move to Tripoli within 48 hours. This was due to the political situation having worsened. They left at 04.00 hrs and completed the 1000 mile journey on time. This deployment continued until October 4th, when the Squadron returned to Barce. Their job in Libya was complete.
My father’s military service finished shortly afterwards.
He returned to the UK, was demobbed, found work, travelled a bit, married, and went on to raise two children.
I am now able to tell his war-time story.
One final note. He made a number of entries in the diary, where he referred to admiring the local ladies from a distance.
It would appear that did get close to an Italian woman. This was in Iseo near Bergamo. Her name was Maria Ferlinghetti. He wrote her name in his service book and she gave him a photograph to remember her by.